


All Creatures Great and Small

by erebones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Fawnlock, M/M, Magic, Rimming, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Totally unlike this sex headcanon by hislastbough on tumblr: sex for fawnlock would be a really instinctual thing, he’s feel so very protective of john, and vice versa -  john understands how incredibly special and beautiful his love is, and when they are connected he can feel the entire forest and fawnlock’s power over it uwu</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Creatures Great and Small

A tiny field mouse clings to the end of a rotted log, nose in the air and whiskers twitching madly. The air is thick with mist and a clinging, shivering feeling of power that the mouse doesn’t quite understand. All she knows is winter is coming, and if she doesn’t collect enough fluff for her nest she will be quite cold in the coming months.

At the other end of the log the mouse has staked as her own, a figure materializes from the mist. She shivers briefly, then runs to the end of the log and hops into the proffered palm. 

“Now then, little one. What are you seeking?”

The mouse skitters up the long brown arm and tangles its little paws in the thick ruff of fur around the wood-god’s neck, squeaking delightedly. The answering chuckle rumbles through her entire body, and she finds herself deposited back on her log with a ball of new, warm fur twice her size. Chattering her thanks, she pushes the ball into the little crevice where she’s made her nest and settles in to fluffing.

The wood-god tilts his great horned head, listening. The forest is settling down with the onset of dawn, every leafy rustle and indignant snort twisted and magnified and muffled by the spreading fog. It’s thick down here in the hollows of the wood—moisture pearls along the twists of his antlers and drips down the ends of his curling head to dampen his shoulders and chest with moisture. The blue swathes of his woad-paint smear when he brushes a long-fingered hand down his arm. He grunts and stamps his hooves in the soft loam. Time for rest.

* * *

 

Autumn is a busy time for John Watson. He wakes early to check his traps, and spends the mornings chopping firewood and monitoring the contents of his smokehouse. Afternoons are for harvesting the last of the root vegetables from his garden and putting Harry’s castoff pressure-canner to good use. It’s a rush out here in the northern wilderness to prepare his humble cabin for the coming winter.

Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t mind too much when the thick fog curling around his house prevents the pre-dawn trek to check his traps. He lets the curtain fall shut on the tiny window that presides over his loft bed, pulls the quilt higher around his shoulders, and falls into a pleasant doze.

He’s awakened by someone cold and wet crawling into his bed. A small, hot tongue licks the back of his neck apologetically, and he buries his face into the pillow with a groan. “Couldn’t you dry off first, Sherlock?”

There’s no answer, except a brisk rub of nose against shoulder and a slim arm wrapping around his waist. The contact leaves ticklish smudges of a blue clay-like substance on John’s skin. He brushes it away and falls back to sleep, his fingers laced with Sherlock’s.

He wakes up again with a cold nose at his hairline and gentle, exploratory hands on his arse. It’s a bit of a disconcerting way to wake up. He lays quietly for a bit, letting it happen. The dry pad of one finger traces the seam of his buttocks and passes breath-soft over his hole.

“John.” The fawn’s voice is a muted rumble in his hair.

“Mmm, ’m awake, Sherlock.”

He huffs a soft sigh and it smells like woodsmoke. “Missed you.”

John slings one arm around Sherlock’s slender waist, rubbing the trail of hair down the middle of his back. Sherlock shivers, and John feels his tail twitch against his wrist. “Is that why you’re here, groping me before I’m even properly awake?”

“Mmm.”

Sherlock gets quiet in the autumn, a little sleepy. He doesn’t hibernate for the winter, but he slows down, leaving the cabin but rarely to see that his forest is slumbering peacefully. Now that November is withering into the gray, wet chill of December, John suspects he’ll be seeing more of the fawn than he has all autumn. He touches the curve of Sherlock’s brow, dappled with rust-brown, feels in his thick thatch of crow’s-nest curls for the bone spurs where his antlers once spread, proud and many-pronged.

“John.” Sherlock butts into his hand, squirms a little closer. Down in the damp heat between their bodies, John feels the fawn’s arousal against his thigh.

“Though you went celibate in winter-time,” John says around a yawn. Sherlock’s nose twitches with interest at the humid waft of morning breath. “Slow metabolism, slow hormones, something.”

Sherlock snorts, loud enough to make John jump. He doesn’t snort like a human does, sort of breathy and mild from the hard tympani of the palate; he snorts like a deer, full-chested, reverberating in the cabin and in John’s ears. It’s a demanding sound, irritable, saying _I’m asking you for this and I’m tired of waiting._

“Yeah, okay, okay. I’m not complaining.” John pushes back a little into Sherlock’s hand, still warm on his arse under his pajamas.

This is far from the first time the fawn has shared John’s bed, but it is the first time he can remember Sherlock showing such an interest in John’s arse. Usually it’s Sherlock on his belly, tail flickering invitingly, pushing the Vaseline into John’s hands. Or just tangled up together under the blankets, writhing and slow, until they’re so soaked in pleasure they can barely speak each other’s names.

Today, John pushes his face into the pillow and sighs when Sherlock wriggles beneath the covers to pry apart his cheeks and sniff at him interestedly. He’s suddenly glad for the thorough shower he had the night before. Very slowly, the cool, wet tip of Sherlock’s tongue traces him. It’s more ticklish than arousing, but John closes his eyes into the pillow and relaxes into it. Slowly, the tongue warms, and he feels himself growing wet and sloppy from Sherlock’s open-mouthed kisses. Underneath him, his cock plumps against the sheets.

Caught in that fragile state between sleep and wakefulness, John feels every stroke of Sherlock’s tongue as if through a layer of early morning mist. His prick is hard and leaking, and his extremities tingle with arousal, but he feels placid and warm and not at all interested in taking control. It’s a bit like being tipsy, only with the certainty of full awareness. He doesn’t feel pressured, or overwhelmed—he feels blanketed in Sherlock, in the sleepy, faded energy of late autumn that the fawn is carrying with him. Like he could roll over and go to sleep for a few months and wake up to spring.

Sherlock hums, and pulls away, a formless bump under the blankets. One hand pats fruitlessly at John’s hip until he can rouse himself enough to pass him the Vaseline. He feels like he should be nervous—he’s never been penetrated this way before—but Sherlock’s every move is slow and steady, soaked in benevolent protection, as if he’s approaching a skittish animal in need of his care. When he presses a slick finger into John, he barely feels it as anything but a sweet pressure clenching deep in his groin.

He almost falls asleep while Sherlock fingers him, but the mattress shifting pulls him awake as Sherlock shuffles up his body.

* * *

 

“John.” He breathes into John’s hair and inhales the scent of them combined. The man is half asleep, but Sherlock isn’t offended. It’s a side-effect of winter that he will carry with him until spring starts to crack the frosty ground, rubbing off on everything he touches, even onto the busy, wide-eyed creatures that lack the sense to hibernate.

What John said was true—his libido _is_ dampened during the winter, rarely rousing him enough to even care for a little self-pleasure when his blood runs hot and wild. But this is the shadowy in-between season, before winter truly grips the land and wrests it from autumn’s languid decomposition; the markings on his body are still russet, and the woad he paints himself with in summer lingers in the elegant lines of his inner arms. It make his blood fizz pleasantly in his veins, and he nudges the weight of his erection into John until he takes the hint and spreads his legs lazily.

Beneath the covers, Sherlock pushes slowly into John’s body. It’s the first time they've done it this way, and he’s surprised by the surge of power that floods him. He is very careful with his human friend and lover—he knows he is a wild thing, created in the womb of the forest. Whenever he comes to the cabin, he sheds a little of his otherworldly skin, decreasing his stature and veiling his power in a cloak of innocence and naïveté. It rouses the protective streak in John, and even a wood-god likes to be cared for and doted upon once in a while. Sherlock likes to be taken, to be owned and cherished by an independent spirit.

Today is different. Today he presses his fingers into John’s hips and leaves bruises with the slightest touch. Today he seats himself in John’s body and feels the protective, tamed shell around him shatter. Beneath him, John gasps, and claws the sheets.

* * *

 

“Sherlock—Sherlock, wait, stop. I want to see you. I need—”

Something is different. John’s heart is suddenly racing, his body shaking with desire and exertion even though he’s done very little but lay still and let Sherlock do as he pleases. There is nothing left of the soft, delicate little creature that crawled into his bed at 5 a.m. Instead he feels a lingering power behind him, pressing into him, a benevolent giant that John can’t quite catch a glimpse of.

When Sherlock releases him, John rolls onto his back and heaves for breath, hand over his face even though he can’t help but look. He’s never seen Sherlock like this: taller than he remembers, the shadow of enormous antlers spreading from his head, every smudge and vein blazing blue as if they were painted freshly yesterday. Sherlock tilts his head, fingers hovering restlessly over John’s spread thighs.

“John? Is this… all right?”

“Oh, Jesus,” John whispers. It occurs to him that he’s never really _seen_ Sherlock before. He’s no fragile forest spirit, but a god, a living, breathing manifestation of every wood and dell in the country and perhaps beyond. Surely power like this does not pay homage to human lines of demarcation.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says, urgently now, and John dares to reach out and touch the warmth of Sherlock’s hip. He’s bloody terrified, but somehow still aroused, and more in love than ever.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s fine.” He lifts his hand higher, shaking, and barely manages to reach the center of Sherlock’s broad chest. The fawn—no, the wood-god—bends low and breathes hotly against John’s throat, pushes back into his body in one smooth slide.

“Oh, god.” John clutches at the sheets and lets Sherlock bury him in heat and musk. Every thrust pushes him closer to the cliff where sanity ends, and if he looks over it he can see a world of forests spread out beneath him, all connected, knitted through with blue veins that match the blue paint on Sherlock’s chest and arms. He shouts, and quakes, and just before the cliff crumbles beneath his feet, he comes, and it’s like jumping head-first into the sun.

When he comes back to himself, Sherlock is a fawn again, slender and pale, without his summer antlers. His dark curls are tinged with the frosty gray of winter, and the blue woad on his skin turns his healthy flush into the color of a mossy linotype. The fawn blinks pale eyes at him, and strokes his sweaty chest.

“I’m all right,” John wheezes. It feels safe enough to stroke him now, to curl his hand around Sherlock’s neck and drawn him down against his side. “Just fucking warn me next time, yeah?”

Sherlock hums and pushes his damp nose into John’s neck. They cuddle close together, the heat of their coupling trapped beneath the blankets. Outside, the mist recedes.


End file.
